[] THE CAPTIVE.

SCENE I.

Come, Fatima, we'll riſe and take a walk to⯑wards the houſe, honey-bird. You, daughter Zorayda, may ſtay in the garden longer if you like it.

Now love and fortune aſſiſt me!

Moſt noble Cadi, your friend Uchali, admiral of the Dey's gallies at Algiers, commands me thus to proſtrate myſelf—

What are you, Chriſtian?

That letter will inform you.

A good perſonable fellow.

"The bearer, a Spaniard by birth, has been a ſlave of mine upwards of a year, during which time he has behaved himſelf well; yeſterday [2] he received money for his ranſom; and being now free, only waits for a ſhip to carry him to his own country: 'till an opportunity offers he deſires to re⯑main among your ſlaves, many of whom are his countrymen. You may venture to truſt him; and he will repay your kindneſs by diſcharging any office in your family you think proper to appoint him."

I like him prodigiouſly.

This letter is, indeed, from my friend Uchali. Well, Chriſtian, I have no objection to your ſtaying awhile among my ſlaves, if you will conduct yourſelf quietly, and be of uſe in my garden here.

I have been bred to gardening from my youth.

I'll bring him into that arbour, where a roſe-tree and a myrtle are juſt falling for want of a prop; if they were bound together they would help to keep one another up.

Come into the houſe, I ſay; he does not want your help. To work, ſirrah, if you'd ſtay with me—

Take this little alms to buy you tobacco.

SCENE II.

They're gone. Now might I venture to ſpeak to my dear Zorayda!—She makes ſigns to me with her hand to keep back. I muſt do ſo for a while, till her father has got at a greater diſtance.

They are quite out of ſight.

Come near then.

My life! my angel!

Have a care. My father has been but three days here in the country. I perceive you have diſ⯑poſed of the money I conveyed to you, in the manner I deſired, to procure your ranſom.

It is true. Owing to your bounty, I am at length a free man, and procured that letter from my former maſter, to be received among your father's ſlaves; which has anſwered to my wiſh, and I now only wait for your farther commands.

Tho' this is the firſt time of our ſpeaking to⯑gether, my letters have ſufficiently informed you who and what I am. You have not forgot the purport of my laſt?

No, ſweet creature.

You know my deſire is to become of your re⯑ligion, and to go with you from hence to Spain. What have you done about the directions I gave you with regard to that?

I have ſpoken to a faſt friend of mine, a rene⯑gado, who has taken care to prepare a veſſel for our de⯑parture. To-morrow night the galley will come to the point, weſt of your garden here, with a dozen Spaniards, all of them able-bodied rowers, and of approved fidelity.

To-morrow night?

The ſooner we can put our deſign in execution the better, leſt ſome adverſe accident ſhould prevent us.

'Tis true:—ſtay hereabouts, and preſently I will come down into the garden again and let you know whether I can be prepared againſt to-morrow night, or not.

SCENE III.

If this be captivity, who would not be a cap⯑tive? What a lucky day was it for me when I was ſet to work upon my maſter's terras in Algiers, where I was ſeen from the windows of her father's houſe by this charming infidel, who ſingled me from the reſt of my companions!

Thus far my love has carried me almoſt with⯑out my knowledge—Yonder he is—Shall I proceed—Shall I diſcover myſelf?

Oh, ſweet Zorayda!

What's that he ſays?

Where is my flute? I will ſit down upon this ſtump of a tree, and whiſtle away the minutes till ſhe comes back.

Zorayda!

What melancholy love-tune ſhall I play now?

I can hold no longer.

My dear Zorayda!—ſo ſoon returned!

Again!—What's the meaning of this? Do you take me for the Cadi's daughter?

By all that's good, the nauſeous wife!

You are confounded.

Somewhat nonpluſt, I confeſs, to hear you deny your name ſo poſitively. Why, are you not Zo⯑rayda, the Cadi's daughter? Did not I ſee you with him but juſt now? Nay, were you not ſo charitable as to give me money?

But I am neither Zorayda, nor the Cadi's daughter.

I know not that; but I am ſure he is old enough to be your father.

But once again—How came you to name Zorayda?

Another miſtake of mine; for aſking one of your ſlaves, when I came into the garden, who were the chief ladies about the houſe, he anſwered me Zorayda and Fatima; but ſhe, it ſeems, is his daughter, (with a plague to her) and you are his beloved wife.

Say your beloved miſtreſs, if you pleaſe, for that's the title I deſire.

Ay, but I have a qualm of conſcience.

Your conſcience was very quiet when you took me for Zorayda.

I muſt be plain with you—You are married to a reverend man, the head of your law. Go back to your chamber, madam; go back.

No, ſirrah; but I'll teach you, to your coſt, what vengeance is in ſtore for refuſing a lady who has offered you her love.

SCENE IV.

What do you mean, madam? For Heaven's ſake, peace.

Ungrateful wretch! What do I mean! Help, help, huſband! my lord Cadi! I ſhall be undone; the villain will be too ſtrong for me. Help, for pity of a poor diſtreſs'd creature.

Then I have nothing but impudence to aſſiſt me. I muſt drown the clamour, whate'er comes on it.

What's here! What's here!

Oh, ſweeteſt! I'm glad you're come; this Chriſtian ſlave was going to be rude with me.

Oh, horrid! abominable! the villain—the monſter—take him away, flay and impale him, rid the world of ſuch a viper.

Firſt hear me, worthy ſir. What have you ſeen to provoke you?

I have heard the outcries of my wife, the bleat⯑ings of the poor innocent lamb. What have I ſeen, quotha! If I ſee the lamb lie expiring, and the wolf by her, is not that evidence ſufficient of the murder?

Pray think in reaſon, Sir. Is a man to be put to death for a ſimilitude? No violence has been com⯑mitted; none intended. The lamb's alive; and, if I durſt tell you ſo, no more a lamb than I am a wolf.

How's that, villain!

Be patient, madam, and ſpeak but truth, I'll do any thing to ſerve you.

Well.—Hear him ſpeak, huſband; perhaps he may ſay ſomething for himſelf I know not.

But did he mean no miſchief? Was he en⯑deavouring nothing?

In my conſcience I begin to doubt he did not.

Then what meant all thoſe outcries?

I heard muſic in the garden, and I ſtole ſoftly down, imagining it might be he.

How's that! Imagining it might be he?

Yes, to be ſure, my lord. Am not I the mi⯑ſtreſs of the family; and is it not my place to ſee good order kept in it? I thought he might have allured ſome of the ſhe ſlaves to him, and was reſolved to prevent what might have been betwixt them; when on a ſudden he ruſh'd out upon me, and caught me in his arms with ſuch a fury—

I have heard enough,—away with him.

Miſtaking me, no doubt, for one of the ſlaves that work in the garden. With that, affrighted as I was, I diſcovered myſelf, and cry'd aloud; but as ſoon as ever he knew me, the villain let me go; and, I muſt needs ſay, he ſtarted back as if I were a ſerpent, and was more afraid of me than I of him.

O, thou ungrateful villain! Did'ſt thou come to get footing in my family in order to corrupt it? That's cauſe enough of death. Once more, again, away with him.

Well, but, love—

Speak not for him.

I muſt ſpeak, and you hear me.

Away with him, I ſay.

What! for an intended treſpaſs? No harm has been done, whatever may be. Then conſider he does not belong to you, and is recommended by a friend you would not chuſe to diſoblige.

Why that's true.

I ſee ſhe'll bring me off if ſhe can.

And are you ſure, raſcal, you meant no harm?

No harm, upon my reputation,—no more than the child unborn. I was playing here by myſelf, (ſuch is my fooliſh cuſtom) and took madam, as ſhe ſays, for one of the female ſlaves employ'd in your garden.

Well, ſirrah, to your kennel; mortify your fleſh, and conſider in whoſe family you are.

Yes, ſir, I'll conſider.

And learn another time to treat the Cadi's wife as ſhe would have you.

What do you mean by that?

What do I mean!—I'll ſhew you what I mean—give the puppy a remembrancer.—

Come, come,—enough.

Do let me beat him a little, huſband.

No wife—no:—Get in before me—

Why ſure!

Get in I ſay.

I wont.

March.—

Well, I will march;—but if I am not revenged on you for this, you old tyrant, the Devil take me.

SCENE V.

Chriſtian where are you?

'Tis her voice—I can't be miſtaken again.

Ferdinand!—

Zorayda!—

Yes 'tis I.

Come nearer that I may be ſure.

There, there.—

Do you know what has happened to me ſince you went away?

Yes, yes, I know it all.—"Any thing to ſerve you, Madam."—Whoſe words were theſe, Gentleman?

Come don't make yourſelf worſe natur'd than you are.—To ſave my life you would be content I ſhould promiſe any thing.

Yes, if I was ſure you would perform nothing.

But is your mother-in-law ſuch a virago?

What do you think of her?

Hang me if I know what to think of her! but this I'm ſure of, ſhe had like to play the Devil with me.

Well, I aſſure you theſe freaks are nothing with her.—I perceiv'd ſhe took a fancy for you the moment ſhe ſaw you:—However, beware of her.—You think that's her face you ſee; but 'tis only a dawb'd vizard: And for conſtancy, I can tell you for your comfort, ſhe would love till death—I mean till yours;—for when ſhe was tir'd of you, ſhe would certainly diſpatch you to another world, for fear of telling tales.

But why all this?—What's Fatima to me?—You cannot imagine I would exchange a diamond for a pebble ſtone.

No;—But I think you might like to have the diamond and the pebble ſtone too by way of variety.

By this fair hand I ſwear—

Well, come—What do you ſwear?

To reſiſt temptation.

To avoid it is better. And ſince you ſay your friends and your ſhip will be ready to-morrow night, to-morrow night I am determined to go off with you.—Meet me here about ten o'clock.—I'll ſlip down from my chamber, and bring my father in my hand.

Your father!

I mean what he conſiders as the better part of him,—his pearls and jewels,—his whole contents,—his heart and ſoul—as much as ever I can carry.

I ſhall be gone this moment and inform my companions.

SCENE VII.

Let me conſider a little.—Am not I a mad wicked girl, going to forſake my father, and leave my country, to run into a ſtrange one with a ſlave whoſe freedom I purchaſe, and I firſt ſaw, by accident, thro' a window in my father's houſe that look'd into the place where he work'd?—Why, on maturely weighing the matter, not ſo mad and wicked as I at firſt appear. I have long hated both our Mahometan laws and religion in my heart, and I have no means to get rid of them both but by putting myſelf in the hands of a Chriſtian.—This is a handſome man I am ſure, and I will believe him an honeſt one.

SCENE I.

I have been waiting here I know not how long!—Why, thou ſweet delicious creature, why torture me with thy delay?—And art thou come at laſt!—But where haſt thou been?—I was almoſt in deſpair.

Don't be angry; it was well I could come at all. There has been a ſtrange buſtle this evening within.

As how! What has been the matter?

Some cauſe which my father has lately decided, and, to tell you the truth, I believe not with the ſtricteſt attention to juſtice; however, the party has carryed his complaint to the Dey, and he has been obliged to go to court about it; but he's come back again, and I fancy the ſtorm is pretty well blown over.

And what are we to do now?

Why, what we have already ſchemed; but, as I had outſtay'd the time appointed, I juſt ſlipped down to ſee if you had patience to keep to your poſt.

Could you doubt it?

Is the galley ready?

I'm but this moment come from it. It lies within a piſtol ſhot of us, juſt without the little gate of your garden which leads to the ſea.

Well, I'll run up again and bring down what I told you; in the mean time, do you take another look towards the galley, and prepare the men for our reception.

I have entruſted a countryman of mine, one of your father's ſlaves, with our deſign. I left him on the watch; but I'll go myſelf.

Heigho!

What's the matter!

Something—I don't know what.

Nay my love—

Let me lean upon your arm—It will away again—My courage is good for all this.

Zorayda!—

Feel my heart.

Poor little thing how it throbs!

Oh me!

SCENE II.

This it is to have a ſound head-piece.—I have mewed up my ſuſpected ſpouſe in her chamber.—No more embaſſies to that luſty young Chriſtian. Next, by this habit of a ſlave, I have made myſelf as like him as I can. Now walking under the windows of my Seraglio, if Fatima ſhould look out, ſhe will certainly take me for Ferdinand, and call to me, and by that I ſhall know what concupiſcence is working in her. She cannot come down to commit iniquity, there's my ſafety; but if ſhe peep, if ſhe put her note abroad, there's demon⯑ſtration of her pious will, and let me alone to work her for it.

SCENE. III.

Now I can embrace you with a good con⯑ſcicence.—Here are the pearls and jewels—here's my father.

I am indeed thy father; but how the Devil didſt thou know me in this diſguiſe!—and what pearls and jewels doſt thou mean?

What have I done! and what will now become of me!

Ar't thou mad, Zorayda?

I think you will make me ſo.

Why?—What have I done to you?—Recol⯑lect thyſelf, and ſpeak ſenſe to me.

Then give me leave to tell you, that you are the worſt of fathers.

Did I think I had got ſuch a monſter!—Pro⯑ceed, my dutiful child, proceed, proceed.

You have been raking together a maſs of wealth, by indirect and wicked means. The ſpoils of orphans are in theſe jewels, and the tears of widows are in theſe pearls.

You amaze me!

I would do ſo.—This caſket is loaded with your ſins. 'Tis the cargo of rapine and extortion, the iniquity of thirty years cadiſhip converted into dia⯑monds.

Would ſome rich railing rogue dare ſay as much to me, that I might ſqueeze his purſe for ſcan⯑dal.

Here, Sir, don't think I'll be the receiver of your thefts.—I diſcharge my conſcience of them.—Here, take again your filthy mammon, and reſtore it, you had beſt, to the true owners.

I am finely documented by my own daughter.

And a great credit to me to be ſo.—Do but think how decent a habit you have on, and how be⯑coming your function to be diſguiſed like a ſlave, and eves-dropping under the womens windows.

Pr'ythee, child, reproach me no more of hu⯑man ſailings.—I am better at bottom than thou thinkeſt.—I am not the man you take me for.

No, to my ſorrow, Sir, you are not.

It was a very bad beginning; tho' methought to ſee you come running upon me with ſuch a warm embrace—Pr'ythee, what was meaning of that vio⯑lent hot hug?

I'm ſure I meant nothing but the zeal and af⯑fection which I bear to the man in the world whom I love beſt.

Why this is as it ſhould be.—Take the treaſure again—It will never be put into better hands.

SCENE. IV.

What do you mean, my dear, to ſtand talking in this ſuſpicious place, juſt under Fatima's window?—You are well met, comrade; I know you are the friend of our flight.

Ferdinand in diſguiſe!—Now I begin to ſmell a rat.

And I another that outſtinks it.—Falſe Zo⯑rayda! thus to betray me to your father.

Alas! I was betrayed myſelf.—He was here in diſguiſe like you; and I, poor innocent, ran into his hands.

In good time you did ſo.—I laid a trap for a ſhe fox, and worſe vermin has caught himſelf in it. You would fain break looſe now, tho' you left a limb behind you; but I am yet in my territories, and in call of company, that's my comfort.

Know I have a trick yet to put you paſt your ſqueaking.

What do you mean?—You will not throttle him!—Conſider he's my father.

Pr'ythee let us provide firſt for our own ſafety.—If I do not conſider him, he will conſider us with a vengeance afterwards.

You may threaten him from crying out; but, for my ſake, give him back a little cranny of his wind⯑pipe, and ſome part of ſpeech.

Not ſo much as one ſingle interjection.—Come away, father-in-law; this is no place for dialogues.—When you are upon the bench you talk by hours, and there no man muſt interrupt you.—This is but like for like, good father-in-law.—Now I am on the bench, 'tis your turn to hold your tongue.

Nay, if you will be hanging back, I ſhall take care [19] you ſhall hang forwards.

T'other way to the arbour with him, and make haſte before we are diſcovered.

If I only bind and gag him there, he may commend me hereafter for civil uſage; he deſerves not ſo much favour for any action of his life.

Yes pray bate him one for begetting your mi⯑ſtreſs.

Once more, come along in ſilence my Pytha⯑gorian father-in-law.

Oh! dear me!—dear me!—I wiſh it was well over—All I'm afraid of is that my courage or ſtrength will fail me.—Well, is he ſafe?

Yes, yes—I have lodg'd him.—He won't trouble us within this half hour, I warrant you.

SCENE V.

Oh! Heavens! what will become of us all!—Who's in the garden?—Ferdinand I ſay!—Ferdi⯑nand!—Help—aſſiſtance—the Dey's officers are in the houſe breaking open the doors of the womens apartments.

Oh! that ſcriech-owl in the balcony!—We ſhall be purſued immediately!—Which way ſhall we take?

She talks of the Emperor's officers!—It will be impoſſible to eſcape them, at leaſt for me.—Here take theſe jewels—You may get off.

And what will become of thee then, poor kind ſoul?

I muſt take my fortune.—When you have got ſafe into your own country, I hope you will ſome⯑time beſtow a ſigh to the memory of her who lov'd you.

No, take back your jewels—It's an empty caſket without thee.—Thou and it had been a bar⯑gain.

I hear them coming!—Shift for yourſelf at leaſt.

No, confound me if I budge from you now.

Who's there?—Zorayda!—Ferdinand!

O are you there, Madam!—You have ferrit⯑ted me out.

Come, come, this is no time for follies of any kind. The Cadi, her father, my huſband, is undone, and we ſhall all be involved in his ruin. The court have had new informations of his extortion, and the wealth he has amaſſed by it. The laſt circumſtance is enough to condemn him, and an order is iſſued to ſtrangle him, and ſeize upon his effects. It is not a [21] moment ſince the guards, thinking he was hid in my room, broke open the door where he had lock'd me up.

And where are they now?

I had the preſence of mind to tell them that the Cadi was at a houſe he has twelve miles off, where they are gone to look for him, by which means we have an hour or two's reſpite to look about us.

Alas! what good can we derive from that?

Hold! ſtay here—By Heaven I have a thought.

Dear Zorayda give me your hand; if there was ever any jealouſies between us, I hope they are now at an end.

SCENE VI.

Come, Sir, come out.—I have told you your condition, and, if there is any thing to be done for you, you ſee there's no time to be loſt.

O dear!—O dear!—O dear!—

Well, you know I always told you what would be the conſequence of your bribery and corruption. I ſaid it would bring you to the mutes and the bow⯑ſtring at laſt.

What will become of me!

Why you'll be ſtrangled as ſoon as the officers come back.

Oh! that curſed ſtrangling.—I can't bear the thoughts of it.—No, good bye to you all.—I'll go and drown myſelf.

Stop: ſince you're for taking to the water, I have a propoſal to make to you. The galley is now waiting in which your daughter and I deſigned to make our eſcape; what ſay you, will you accompany us?—We have already got the chief part of your effects, which I promiſe to ſhare with you when we get to Spain.

Do, dear father.

Indeed, huſband, 'tis the only thing left for us.

Well, dear wife, give me a kiſs then.